Mrs & Mrs Berry-Fabray
by adaylate
Summary: "But what could Quinn possibly face as a lawyer that's more stressful than what she does? Rachel still makes it home on time for dinner and she's got a gun pointed at a guy, for goodness' sake." AU. Mr. & Mrs. Smith style.


Mrs. and Mrs. Berry-Fabray

a/n: i'm not sure what this is. i'm sick and on nyquil, for starters. basically, i saw a picture luckypressure drew of klaine in the mr. & mrs. smith 'verse, and i wanted to put a faberry spin on it. this isn't _too_ explicit, but it's M just to be safe. (sorry.)

disclaimer: nothing is mine.

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_and all we are is skin and bone trained to get along_

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"And you both feel like you communicate?"

"Yes," Rachel answers, her gaze trained on her white blouse as she fixes the roll of her sleeve. Quinn simply nods beside her, legs crossed.

"All right, then. Last question for today. On a scale of one to ten, how often are you two intimate?"

At this, Rachel's gaze snaps up and the woman beside her clears her throat. "Um," Rachel starts after a moment's hesitation. "I don't understand the question."

"Nor do I," the blonde chimes in. "One being a few times, or none, or is one the highest? Because-"

"And is it per week? Or month? That could drastically affect our responses and-"

"We want to be precise, so-"

"So... If you could clarify."

.

After their session, in the parking lot, Rachel's leaning against her black BMW as she watches Quinn set her purse down on the front passenger seat of her own car.

"Dinner's at seven," Rachel says, twisting the keys in her hand.

"All right."

"Don't be late."

Quinn shuts the passenger door and steps closer to her wife, dropping a kiss to her forehead. She mumbles a quiet, "I won't."

And they part ways for the day, Rachel speeding down the road southbound, with Quinn heading in the opposite direction.

.

With her sniper locked on her target, Rachel jumps slightly at the feel of her phone vibrating in her pocket. She huffs to herself and steps back from her shot, pulling out her stupid phone because it's currently set to let only one contact come through––and that's her wife.

_I can't make dinner tonight. Have to stay late for work._

Rachel rolls her eyes and unlocks her phone, typing a quick _Okay._ and re-pocketing it. It's sad, really, because now her anger is focused on a guy who sold too many big guns to the wrong people, when she should be _communicating_ with her wife like their stupid shrink told her to do.

Whatever.

The rush after a kill is always something, and it'll probably make Rachel's anger at her wife dissipate for missing yet another dinner because of _work_. And look, she's got a stressful job. She _knows_ what being stressed out is like. But what could Quinn possibly face as a lawyer that's more stressful than what she does? Rachel still makes it home on time for dinner and she's got a gun pointed at a guy, for goodness' sake.

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Quinn comes home that night with a limp and Rachel pretends she's sleeping. She probably shouldn't, but the distance growing between the two of them is something Rachel's not sure how to stop. She doesn't _talk_ and nor does Rachel, and it's like living with a stranger.

Rachel hears her in the bathroom getting ready for bed, and then a pained gasp some time after the shower water's stopped running. She's in a pair of pants and a tank top when she slips into bed, and Rachel rolls over on her own accord.

"You okay?" The brunette clears her throat, noticing her voice is a little rough from her almost being asleep.

Quinn turns to face her, briefly, and snuggles under the covers. "Yeah, just being my usual klutzy self. I'm fine."

But she knows she's not, because she's extra careful with her leg as she gets comfortable under the covers, and she's far from being a klutz. Rachel nods anyway and burrows further into her pillow, readying herself for another night when she's _so close_ to Quinn yet it feels like miles separate them.

.

Rachel says she has the day off, so she'll be able to clear off the rest of the table once she's done with her coffee. Quinn leaves after breakfast and her usual kiss to her wife's forehead, but once she pulls out of the driveway and down the street, Rachel's upstairs changing and getting ready for a mission her and her team have spent months planning.

It's a few hours later when Rachel finds herself glued to a laptop, watching as her target approaches the nice little trap they've set up. It's rural and grassy for _miles_ and as a fly torments her by buzzing around her head, she's reminded again of how much she _hates_ nature.

She's hot and gross and really just wants this day to be over with when she spots a small vehicle driving straight into her trap.

This_ idiot_.

Rachel groans in aggravation and hops up out of her makeshift chair, reaching for the gun leaning against a tree. Her target is rapidly approaching and so is this... What is it? A _buggy_?

She's got two choices and one of them involves purposefully ruining a plan she's put an incredible amount of time in–also known as the one option where no innocent lives are lost even if they are _stupid_.

But, gratefully, the buggy stops. And a woman hops out of it with––_shit_. No.

The brunette calls her team and they're telling her to stick to the plan, but Buggy Woman has a gun and, while she may not be pointing directly at Rachel yet, she's planning on shooting _something_.

And so she sets the trap to go off _now_ and destroys her makeshift hideout.

She's not sure what happens to her target, but she's going to find out who the _hell _that woman was after she takes care of the cut on her forehead. She can feel the blood trickling down and, okay, debris flies when things are blown up but she usually doesn't get _hit_. Her whole plan and _day_ have been thrown off.

All because of some _idiot_.

.

She finds out just who that woman is, and she doesn't go home that night.

It's Quinn.

Rachel's not scared. She's angry.

.

Finally, around noon the next day, Rachel pulls into her driveway with one thing on her mind: find out who she's married to.

She cuts in the engine and twirls her wedding ring around her finger just once. A reminder. They've been together for six years. Yet they're strangers.

Her plan is simple: Quinn spends a lot of time in the garage. Check there. If nothing, check the basement. If nothing, kill her.

And, okay, she's not strong enough to do that even if she wanted to, but she's running out of options. With a knife strapped to her thigh and her gun on her side, she finds Quinn's work area in the garage.

She later wonders how long Quinn's been an assassin.

Just like her.

.

Rachel makes Quinn's favorite dinner that evening. She's in a pretty black dress with her hair in loose curls, and her heart's beating wildly in her chest although she's not sure why. She adds pepper to the meal just because, and she's on her second glass of wine when the blonde walks in the door.

"Long day?" Rachel asks.

"You can say that," Quinn replies, seemingly unsurprised that Rachel's back despite not being home for roughly twenty-four hours. She notices the white strips covering a cut on Rachel's forehead. She says nothing.

"Hmm. I made dinner. Your favorite."

"Smells good," she smiles a little as she sits down.

But something is _off_. Neither of them are talking about the giant you're-a-killer-and-so-am-I elephant in the room. And maybe that's a good thing.

Rachel hasn't eaten any of her food yet and Quinn's not about to _die _from some poison on her plate, okay? She's survived multiple missions and this will _not_ be her demise. So she's waiting for her wife to take the first bite. And after dropping off a bread roll onto Quinn's plate, Rachel steals one of her green beans and eats it on her way back to her place at the table.

So there's that.

Quinn inwardly rolls her eyes at herself. Rachel doesn't _know_. She can't know that she knows.

Poison. _Idiot_.

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"Want more wine?" Quinn asks, reaching for the bottle as she stands.

Rachel nods gratefully and watches as her wife approaches, her black pants and light purple blouse fitting her perfectly. She knows she has a beautiful wife––she's not _blind_, but she's not really sure who she _is_.

And Rachel's lost in her thoughts when she notices the bottle slip from her grasp, and before she knows it Rachel's caught the bottle so it doesn't ruin her new carpet and––

Rachel's the idiot now.

Perfectly still, she brings her gaze up to lock with hazel and nothing moves for what feels like _hours_.

But only a few seconds pass and then Quinn is mumbling about getting a sponge and Rachel mentions something about finding a towel. Except neither of them head toward the kitchen or laundry room.

.

The house is dead silent and Rachel's got a pistol grasped in her hand, the knife still strapped to her thigh. She's upstairs, but she's making her way toward the staircase as she hears a muffled _bang_ and a whispered curse word.

There she is.

"Baby?" Rachel asks sweetly.

Stopping at the top of the stairwell, she peeks around the corner, but she doesn't see any movement. "Quinn?" She tries again, and the response is in the form of a machine gun shooting at her.

Rachel drops to the ground, heart racing, and laughs to herself quietly.

Her life has never been normal, what with growing up with two fathers and her current profession, but being married to _her_? A hot woman who can shoot, is smart, funny, and has most certainly killed someone at some point in the past? Rachel thought she was a lawyer, but she somehow managed to fill every aspect of her life with chaos.

The shooting stops eventually and she crawls to the edge.

And she sees a flash of blonde. Rachel shoots in the direction before she can even think, and she hears a muffled groan after two shots.

Her heart drops and, well, she has a marriage certificate to prove they promised a lifetime together. In sickness and in health. And she just _shot_ at her.

Granted, she shot first, but Rachel's feeling a little shitty so she carefully, slowly heads down the stairs. She's just about to reach the last step when she hears another shot, and she runs for cover. Quinn has always played dirty, even if it was only to (try to) beat her in Scrabble.

Rachel's angry now, though, because what she did was cheap. Pretending to be hurt so she'd stop?

"Not cool, Fabray."

She hears a faint laugh from the other side of the wall––she's in the family room, Quinn's in the dining room––and heads toward the opposite entrance to the room her wife is in.

"Neither is shooting at your wife, Berry."

"You shot first. With a _machine gun_, I might add."

"Weapon of choice."

Figures. Big ego, big gun.

Rachel smirks inwardly. She's just a good shot overall.

And she's rounding the corner, gun held up with her right hand, as she comes face-to-face with Quinn, her position mirroring Rachel's. She meets her eyes and they're sharp, angry. She's sure the same is reflected in her own eyes, probably with a hint of sadness because her marriage is crumbling before her eyes.

But she doesn't find that sadness in Quinn's. And her heart breaks a little, even if she wouldn't admit that aloud to anyone. Ever.

Her emotions are everywhere and now she's angry––she doesn't _care_ and all of this probably meant _nothing_ to her––and then Rachel's telling her to shoot.

"Do it."

She doesn't reply.

"Do it, Quinn."

Still nothing.

"Shoot." Louder.

Her hard exterior crumbles a bit as she shakes her head slowly, only a little. Quinn drops her gun to her side and it drives Rachel _crazy_ because why wouldn't she just _do _it? This meant nothing and it was supposed to be easy for her, because Rachel knows she sure as hell couldn't shoot.

But her gun's on the ground next, and she's shaking her head.

She blinks once, twice.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. Pick up your gun."

The brunette can feel hot, angry tears trailing down her cheeks but she doesn't try to hide them. She only noticed they were there a few seconds ago, anyway.

"No, Rachel."

Then something in her snaps. Rachel's gun is on the floor and she's launching herself at Quinn, and the blonde slams into the dining room wall with the force of it. She grunts a little but doesn't acknowledge it further, instead choosing to focus on Rachel's lips as they claim hers.

And then she's pushing the smaller woman off and it shouldn't be this _rough_ and practically throws her onto the dining room table. Rachel's breathing hard and so is she and the look in her eyes is simply _predatory._

She rips open Quinn's shirt once she pulls her to the edge of the table, a few buttons flying off in her haste, and she takes it off the rest of the way before she's pulling down the brunette's panties, her dress up around her waist. Her mouth latches on to a tan neck and her head falls back, a sigh escaping through her lips as her fingers grasp blond hair.

Rachel's not at all ashamed of the fact that her hips are rolling against Quinn's abdomen, and she groans as Quinn roughly pulls the dress away from her breasts. Her lips trail lower, biting her collar bone and eventually reaching their destination just as Quinn's hand cups her center.

And Rachel's eyes roll back, one hand gripping Quinn's shoulder and the other buried in blond locks, as she enters her in one swift movement. Like she's been doing it for years, but it somehow feels like the first time.

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a/n: it might be fun to explore this further. haven't decided. :)


End file.
